


Precious

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/s, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Slave, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light in the room was dim and came from without, not within. Snape tried not to think of that as an apt metaphor for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precious

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to [](http://seatbeltdrivein.livejournal.com/profile)[**seatbeltdrivein**](http://seatbeltdrivein.livejournal.com/) , [](http://keppiehed.livejournal.com/profile)[**keppiehed**](http://keppiehed.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://ratherbsailing.livejournal.com/profile)[**ratherbsailing**](http://ratherbsailing.livejournal.com/) for their hard work and amazing feedback.

Potter writhed like a snake.

Snape had always found it interesting—fascinating, really. He loved to watch it, loved to feel those ribs, slightly protruding, as they angled from side to side. Harry's spine seemed more flexible than a normal man's did, arching and bending and matching the noises that came from his mouth.

It was easy to get distracted while fucking Potter. There was so much to see, even after all this time. The way his shoulder blades pointed, sharp like words after too many shots of Firewhisky, the skin across them drawn tight as though they were keeping something inside.

The way his neck stretched and bared itself for him, head tilted to one side or the other, inviting, beckoning, _begging._

The way his hamstrings pulled so taut that Snape felt like he could grip them and yank them right out, immobilising him permanently.

It was easy to become macabre while fucking Potter.

There was nothing like watching his own cock, paler still than Potter's pale skin, spear and skewer the body beneath him. There was nothing like Potter's whimpers, like his sighs, like his groans, like his _screams._ There really was nothing like Potter.

And it was all Snape's. Every bone, every ligament, every scar—yes, even that one—and every hair. Potter belonged to him in a way that was irrefutable, indescribable, and infallible. Snape was Potter's own self-inflicted exile.

Sometimes he hated the sounds that Potter tore from him. Angry, desperate sounds like a man in love or a man in lust or a man in the throes of death. But mostly he let himself be heard—every time he groaned, Potter grunted. Every time he sighed, Potter whined. Potter was his echo.

The bed beneath them was filthy. There was a scratchy stain under his left knee that was close to rubbing the skin raw, baring him to the kneecap, and even if it did, he wouldn’t stop. Nothing, _nothing_ , would stop him from taking what was his.

What was owed him.

The light was dim and came from without, not within. Snape tried not to think of that as an apt metaphor for himself. It was hard not to find analogy in everything he did, everything he said, what he wanted, what he took. Potter was hyperbole. Extreme, out of proportion, excitable. Snape was metaphor. Never himself, always something else.

Their bodies worked together and yet against each other. Toward and to the same end but with entirely opposing strategies of how to get there. Snape fucked forward, Potter fucked back. Snape's hands were tight, Potter's hole was loose. Snape's heart was closed, Potter's legs were open. To say it was a study in extremes would mean that Snape had actually considered it, but he would never admit to having done so.

Potter touched himself. It wasn’t because Snape wouldn’t, but because he _would._ That one thing, the ability to bring himself pleasure, belonged to Potter. He could keep it. Snape didn’t need it. He didn’t want it.

It was his, anyway. Just because he didn't _use_ it, didn’t mean it didn’t belong to him.

When Snape finally came, Potter screamed like his ejaculate was made of razor wire—in reality, Snape suspected Potter couldn’t really _feel_ what was going on inside his own arse. It was more the idea, the knowledge that it was finished, that there was nothing left for him.

It was over.

For now, anyway. Snape always returned. He never left Potter alone too long. It was his only weakness, this room, this boy. He'd spent so much of his life repenting, regretting, seeking absolution. When he'd finally found it, he guarded it like he did all life's meagre treasures—close to his chest and shared with none.

Potter slumped forward onto his stomach, right in his own spillage. That might explain the rough patch that had scrubbed at Snape's knee. Potter truly was a filthy mess. He'd have to do something about that, and very soon.

Snape moved and sat on the side of the bed, wiping his cock on a corner of the blanket. Yes, the sheets very much needed to washed. Potter's breath was evening out, becoming less laboured and more satisfied. Say what you would about Severus Snape, but he didn’t leave his lover wanting. Not like that, anyway.

With a sweet sound like a sigh, Potter rolled over. His cock, smaller now, insignificant, really, lay weak and dormant against his thigh. Potter's face was flushed, the redness kissing his collarbones like a necklace, a gift from a lover who liked to see him adorned in pretty things.

Smiling up at him, Potter didn’t try to touch him. He didn’t put his head on Snape's lap like he once had. He didn’t reach for Snape's hand, wanting just a touch, just _once_ , Snape, _please… just let me touch you_!

No. He didn’t do those things.

Snape leaned down and kissed Potter's swollen lips until they were red all over again. Snape drew back first, as always. Another fucking metaphor.

"Will I see you again soon?" Potter whispered, the words like rotted, fetid breath in Snape's nose. It was always the same.

Snape didn’t _really_ mind, though. Not when it was _his._

"I imagine so," Snape said truthfully. The time between his visits grew shorter and shorter. He'd probably move right into the dank little room, given enough time. For now, though, he had his own life, above-ground, as he liked to call it.

"Good." Potter smiled. It wasn’t really sad, but it couldn’t be called happy, either. Maybe Snape was just no longer a good judge of either emotion, as mixed up as they were inside his head.

Snape rose and dressed. He drew the key from his pocket, amazed as always when Potter didn’t break for the door, didn’t push past him, teeth and nails and sheer self-preservation, and destroy everything Snape had come to love.

Yes. Love.

The cell door creaked, and Potter laughed at the ominous sound. It was a joke.

But when the key turned in the lock, Potter on the inside, Snape on the outside, there was something, maybe a light, maybe a darkness, that dimmed inside Potter's eyes. Or grew brighter.

Snape couldn’t tell anymore.

The end.


End file.
